Part 2 — THE BOROUGH. (continued 2)

Yes, our Election's past, and we've been free, Somewhat as madmen without keepers be; And such desire of freedom has been shown, That both the parties wish'd her all their own: All our free smiths and cobblers in the town Were loth to lay such pleasant freedom down— To put the bludgeon and cockade aside, And let us pass unhurt and undefied. True! you might then your party's sign produce, 10 And so escape with only half th' abuse— With half the danger as you walk'd along, With rage and threat'ning but from half the throng. This you might do, and not your fortune mend; For where you lost a foe, you gain'd a friend; And, to distress you, vex you, and expose, Election-friends are worse than any foes; The party-curse is with the canvass past, But party-friendship, for your grief, will last. Friends of all kinds, the civil and the rude, 20 Who humbly wish, or boldly dare t' intrude: These beg or take a liberty to come (Friends should be free), and make your house their home; They know that warmly you their cause espouse, And come to make their boastings and their bows. You scorn their manners, you their words mistrust; But you must hear them, and they know you must. One plainly sees a friendship firm and true Between the noble candidate and you; So humbly begs (and states at large the case), 30 "You'll think of Bobby and the little place." Stifling his shame by drink, a wretch will come, And prate your wife and daughter from the room: In pain you hear him, and at heart despise, Yet with heroic mind your pangs disguise; And still in patience to the sot attend, To show what man can bear to serve a friend. One enters hungry—not to be denied, And takes his place and jokes—"We're of a side." Yet worse, the proser who, upon the strength 40 Of his one vote, has tales of three hours' length— This sorry rogue you bear, yet with surprise Start at his oaths, and sicken at his lies. Then comes there one, and tells in friendly way, What the opponents in their anger say; All that through life has vex'd you, all abuse, Will this kind friend in pure regard produce; And, having through your own offences run, Adds (as appendage) what your friends have done. Has any female cousin made a trip 50 To Gretna-Green, or more vexatious slip? Has your wife's brother, or your uncle's son, Done aught amiss, or is he thought t' have done? Is there of all your kindred some who lack Vision direct, or have a gibbous back? From your unlucky name may quips and puns Be made by these upbraiding Goths and Huns? To some great public character have you Assign'd the fame to worth and talents due, Proud of your praise?—In this, in any case, 60 Where the brute-spirit may affix disgrace, These friends will smiling bring it, and the while You silent sit, and practise for a smile. Vain of their power, and of their value sure, They nearly guess the tortures you endure; Nor spare one pang—for they perceive your heart Goes with the cause; you'd die before you'd start; Do what they may, they're sure you'll not offend Men who have pledged their honours to your friend. Those friends indeed, who start as in a race, 70 May love the sport, and laugh at this disgrace; They have in view the glory and the prize, Nor heed the dirty steps by which they rise: But we, their poor associates, lose the fame, Though more than partners in the toil and shame. Were this the whole, and did the time produce But shame and toil, but riot and abuse: We might be then from serious griefs exempt, And view the whole with pity and contempt, Alas! but here the vilest passions rule; 80 It is Seduction's, is Temptation's school: Where vices mingle in the oddest ways, The grossest slander and the dirtiest praise; Flattery enough to make the vainest sick, And clumsy stratagem, and scoundrel trick. Nay more, your anger and contempt to cause, These, while they fish for profit, claim applause; Bribed, bought and bound, they banish shame and fear; Tell you they're stanch, and have a soul sincere; Then talk of honour, and, if doubt's express'd, 90 Show where it lies, and smite upon the breast. Among these worthies, some at first declare For whom they vote; he then has most to spare. Others hang off—when coming to the post Is spurring time, and then he'll spare the most; While some, demurring, wait, and find at last The bidding languish, and the market pass'd; These will affect all bribery to condemn, And, be it Satan laughs, he laughs at them. Some too are pious—one desired the Lord 100 To teach him where "to drop his little word; To lend his vote, where it will profit best; Promotion came not from the east or west; But as their freedom had promoted some, He should be glad to know which way 'twould come, It was a naughty world, and, where to sell His precious charge, was more than he could tell." "But you succeeded?"—true, at mighty cost; And our good friend, I fear, will think he's lost. Inns, horses, chaises, dinners, balls and notes; 110 What fill'd their purses, and what drench'd their throats; The private pension, and indulgent lease, Have all been granted to these friends who fleece— Friends who will hang like burs upon his coat, And boundless judge the value of a vote. And, though the terrors of the time be pass'd, There still remain the scatterings of the blast. The boughs are parted that entwined before, And ancient harmony exists no more; The gusts of wrath our peaceful seats deform, 120 And sadly flows the sighing of the storm: Those who have gain'd are sorry for the gloom, But they who lost unwilling peace should come; There open envy, here suppress'd delight, Yet live till time shall better thoughts excite, And so prepare us, by a six-years' truce, Again for riot, insult, and abuse. Our worthy mayor, on the victorious part, Cries out for peace, and cries with all his heart; He, civil creature! ever does his best, 130 To banish wrath from every voter's breast; "For where," says he, with reason strong and plain, "Where is the profit? what will anger gain?" His short stout person he is wont to brace In good brown broad-cloth, edged with two-inch lace, When in his seat; and still the coat seems new, Preserved by common use of seaman's blue. He was a fisher from his earliest day, And placed his nets within the Borough's bay; Where by his skates, his herrings, and his soles, 140 He lived, nor dream'd of corporation-doles[49]; But, toiling, saved and, saving, never ceased Till he had box'd up twelve score pounds at least. He knew not money's power, but judged it best Safe in his trunk to let his treasure rest; Yet to a friend complain'd: "Sad charge, to keep So many pounds, and then I cannot sleep." "Then put it out," replied the friend.—"What, give My money up? why, then I could not live."— "Nay, but for interest place it in his hands, 150 Who'll give you mortgage on his house or lands."— "Oh but," said Daniel, "that's a dangerous plan; He may be robb'd like any other man."— "Still he is bound, and you may be at rest, More safe the money than within your chest; And you'll receive, from all deductions clear, Five pounds for every hundred, every year."— "What good in that?" quoth Daniel, "for 'tis plain, If part I take, there can but part remain."— "What! you, my friend, so skill'd in gainful things, 160 Have you to learn what interest money brings?"— "Not so," said Daniel, "perfectly I know, He's the most interest who has most to show."— "True! and he'll show the more, the more he lends; Thus he his weight and consequence extends; For they who borrow must restore each sum, And pay for use—What, Daniel, art thou dumb?" For much amazed was that good man—"Indeed!" Said he, with glad'ning eye, "will money breed? How have I lived? I grieve, with all my heart, 170 For my late knowledge in this precious art:— Five pounds for every hundred will he give? And then the hundred?——I begin to live."— So he began, and other means he found, As he went on, to multiply a pound: Though blind so long to interest, all allow That no man better understands it now. Him in our body-corporate we chose, And, once among us, he above us rose; Stepping from post to post, he reach'd the chair, 180 And there he now reposes—that's the mayor. But 'tis not he, 'tis not the kinder few, The mild, the good, who can our peace renew; A peevish humour swells in every eye, The warm are angry, and the cool are shy; There is no more the social board at whist. The good old partners are with scorn dismiss'd; No more with dog and lantern comes the maid, To guide the mistress when the rubber's play'd; Sad shifts are made, lest ribbons blue and green 190 Should at one table, at one time be seen. On care and merit none will now rely, 'Tis party sells what party-friends must buy; The warmest burgess wears a bodger's coat, And fashion gains less int'rest than a vote; Uncheck'd, the vintner still his poison vends; For he too votes, and can command his friends. But, this admitted, be it still agreed, These ill effects from noble cause proceed; } Though like some vile excrescences they be, } 200 The tree they spring from is a sacred tree, } And its true produce, strength and liberty. Yet if we could th' attendant ills suppress; If we could make the sum of mischief less; If we could warm and angry men persuade No more man's common comforts to invade; And that old ease and harmony re-seat In all our meetings, so in joy to meet: Much would of glory to the Muse ensue, And our good vicar would have less to do.

"Trades and Professions"—these are themes the Muse, Left to her freedom, would forbear to choose; But to our Borough they in truth belong, And we, perforce, must take them in our song. Be it then known that we can boast of these In all denominations, ranks, degrees; } All who our numerous wants through life supply, } Who soothe us sick, attend us when we die, } Or for the dead their various talents try. 10 Then have we those who live by secret arts, By hunting fortunes, and by stealing hearts; Or who by nobler means themselves advance; Or who subsist by charity and chance. Say, of our native heroes shall I boast, Born in our streets, to thunder on our coast— Our Borough-seamen? Could the timid Muse More patriot-ardour in their breasts infuse; Or could she paint their merit or their skill, She wants not love, alacrity, or will; 20 But needless all: that ardour is their own, And, for their deeds, themselves have made them known. } Soldiers in arms! Defenders of our soil! } Who from destruction save us; who from spoil } Protect the sons of peace who traffic, or who toil: Would I could duly praise you; that each deed Your foes might honour, and your friends might read: This too is needless; you've imprinted well Your powers, and told what I should feebly tell. Beside, a Muse like mine, to satire prone, 30 Would fail in themes where there is praise alone. —Law shall I sing, or what to Law belongs? Alas! there may be danger in such songs; A foolish rhyme, 'tis said, a trifling thing, The law found treason, for it touch'd the king. But kings have mercy in these happy times, Or surely one had suffer'd for his rhymes; Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold, So touch'd, had kept the reprobate in hold; But he escaped—nor fear, thank Heav'n, have I, 40 Who love my king, for such offence to die. But I am taught the danger would be much, If these poor lines should one attorney touch— (One of those limbs of law who're always here; The heads come down to guide them twice a year.) I might not swing indeed; but he in sport Would whip a rhymer on from court to court; Stop him in each, and make him pay for all The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall.— Then let my numbers flow discreetly on, 50 Warn'd by the fate of luckless Coddrington[50]; Lest some attorney (pardon me the name) Should wound a poor solicitor for fame. One man of law in George the Second's reign Was all our frugal fathers would maintain; He too was kept for forms; a man of peace, To frame a contract, or to draw a lease: He had a clerk, with whom he used to write All the day long, with whom he drank at night; Spare was his visage, moderate his bill, 60 And he so kind, men doubted of his skill. Who thinks of this, with some amazement sees, For one so poor, three flourishing at ease— Nay, one in splendour!—See that mansion tall, That lofty door, the far-resounding hall; Well-furnish'd rooms, plate shining on the board, Gay liveried lads, and cellar proudly stored: Then say how comes it that such fortunes crown These sons of strife, these terrors of the town? Lo! that small office! there th' incautious guest 70 Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest; There in his web th' observant spider lies, And peers about for fat intruding flies; Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum, And feels them flutt'ring as they nearer come. They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread On the strong birdlime of the utmost thread; But, when they're once entangled by the gin, With what an eager clasp he draws them in; Nor shall they 'scape till after long delay, 80 And all that sweetens life is drawn away. "Nay, this," you cry, "is common-place, the tale Of petty tradesmen o'er their evening-ale. There are who, living by the legal pen, Are held in honour—'honourable men.'" Doubtless—there are, who hold manorial courts, Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports; Or who, by labouring through a length of time, Have pick'd their way, unsullied by a crime. These are the few—in this, in every place, 90 Fix the litigious rupture-stirring race: Who to contention as to trade are led, To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread. There is a doubtful pauper, and we think 'Tis with us to give him meat and drink; There is a child, and 'tis not mighty clear Whether the mother lived with us a year; A road's indicted, and our seniors doubt If in our proper boundary or without: But what says our attorney? He our friend 100 Tells us 'tis just and manly to contend. "What! to a neighbouring parish yield your cause, While you have money, and the nation laws? What! lose without a trial, that which tried, May—nay it must—be given on our side? All men of spirit would contend; such men Than lose a pound would rather hazard ten. What! be imposed on? No! a British soul Despises imposition, hates control; The law is open; let them, if they dare, 110 Support their cause; the Borough need not spare. All I advise is vigour and good-will: Is it agreed then?—Shall I file a bill?" The trader, grazier, merchant, priest, and all Whose sons aspiring to [professions'] call, Choose from their lads some bold and subtle boy, And judge him fitted for this grave employ. Him a keen old practitioner admits, To write five years and exercise his wits: The youth has heard—it is in fact his creed— 120 Mankind dispute, that lawyers may be fee'd: Jails, bailiffs, writs, all terms and threats of law, Grow now familiar as once top and taw; Rage, hatred, fear, the mind's severer ills, All bring employment, all augment his bills; As feels the surgeon for the mangled limb, The mangled mind is but a job for him; Thus taught to think, these legal reasoners draw Morals and maxims from their views of law; They cease to judge by precepts taught in schools, 130 By man's plain sense, or by religious rules; No! nor by law itself, in truth discern'd, But as its statutes may be warp'd and turn'd. How they should judge of man, his word and deed, They in their books and not their bosoms read: Of some good act you speak with just applause, "No! no!" says he, "'twould be a losing cause." Blame you some tyrant's deed?—he answers, "Nay, He'll get a verdict; heed you what you say." Thus, to conclusions from examples led, 140 The heart resigns all judgment to the head; Law, law alone, for ever kept in view, His measures guides, and rules his conscience too; Of ten commandments, he confesses three Are yet in force, and tells you which they be, As law instructs him, thus: "Your neighbour's wife You must not take, his chattels, nor his life; Break these decrees, for damage you must pay; These you must reverence, and the rest—you may." Law was design'd to keep a state in peace; 150 To punish robbery, that wrong might cease; To be impregnable—a constant fort, To which the weak and injured might resort. But these perverted minds its force employ, Not to protect mankind, but to annoy; And, long as ammunition can be found, Its lightning flashes and its thunders sound. Or, law with lawyers is an ample still, Wrought by the passions' heat with chymic sill; While the fire burns, the gains are quickly made, 160 And freely flow the profits of the trade; } Nay, when the fierceness fails, these artists blow } The dying fire, and make the embers glow, } As long as they can make the smaller profits flow; At length the process of itself will stop, When they perceive they've drawn out every drop. Yet, I repeat, there are, who nobly strive To keep the sense of moral worth alive: Men who would starve, ere meanly deign to live On what deception and chican'ry give; 170 And these at length succeed: they have their strife, Their apprehensions, stops, and rubs in life; But honour, application, care, and skill, Shall bend opposing fortune to their will. Of such is Archer, he who keeps in awe Contending parties by his threats of law. He, roughly honest, has been long a guide In Borough-business, on the conquering side; And seen so much of both sides, and so long, He thinks the bias of man's mind goes wrong. 180 Thus, though he's friendly, he is still severe, Surly though kind, suspiciously sincere: So much he's seen of baseness in the mind, That, while a friend to man, he scorns mankind; He knows the human heart, and sees with dread, By slight temptation, how the strong are led; He knows how interest can asunder rend The bond of parent, master, guardian, friend, To form a new and a degrading tie 'Twixt needy vice and tempting villany. 190 Sound in himself, yet, when such flaws appear, He doubts of all, and learns that self to fear: For, where so dark the moral view is grown, A timid conscience trembles for her own; The pitchy taint of general vice is such As daubs the fancy, and you dread the touch. Far unlike him was one in former times, Famed for the spoil he gather'd by his crimes; Who, while his brethren nibbling held their prey, He like an eagle seized and bore the whole away. 200 Swallow, a poor attorney, brought his boy Up at his desk, and gave him his employ; He would have bound him to an honest trade, Could preparations have been duly made. The clerkship ended, both the sire and son Together did what business could be done; Sometimes they'd luck to stir up small disputes Among their friends, and raise them into suits. Though close and hard, the father was content With this resource, now old and indolent; 210 But his young Swallow, gaping and alive To fiercer feelings, was resolved to thrive:— "Father," he said, "but little can they win Who hunt in couples, where the game is thin; Let's part in peace, and each pursue his gain Where it may start—our love may yet remain." The parent growl'd, he couldn't think that love Made the young cockatrice his den remove; But, taught by habit, he the truth suppress'd, Forced a frank look, and said he "thought it best." 220 Not long they'd parted ere dispute arose; The game they hunted quickly made them foes. Some house the father by his art had won Seem'd a fit cause of contest to the son: Who raised a claimant, and then found a way By a stanch witness to secure his prey. The people cursed him, but in times of need Trusted in one so certain to succeed: By law's dark by-ways he had stored his mind With wicked knowledge, how to cheat mankind. 230 Few are the freeholds in our ancient town; A copy-right from heir to heir came down. From whence some heat arose, when there was doubt In point of heirship; but the fire went out, Till our attorney had the art to raise The dying spark, and blow it to a blaze. For this he now began his friends to treat; His way to starve them was to make them eat, And drink oblivious draughts—to his applause It must be said, he never starved a cause; 240 He'd roast and boil'd upon his board—the boast Of half his victims was his boil'd and roast— And these at every hour: he seldom took Aside his client, till he'd praised his cook; Nor to an office led him, there in pain To give his story and go out again, But first the brandy and the chine were seen. And then the business came by starts between. "Well, if 'tis so, the house to you belongs; But have you money to redress these wrongs? 250 Nay, look not sad, my friend; if you're correct, You'll find the friendship that you'd not expect." If right the man, the house was Swallow's own; If wrong, his kindness and good-will were shown. "Rogue!" "Villain!" "Scoundrel!" cried the losers all; He let them cry, for what would that recall? At length he left us, took a village seat, And like a vulture look'd abroad for meat; The Borough-booty, give it all its praise, Had only served the appetite to raise; 260 But, if from simple heirs he drew their land, He might a noble feast at will command; Still he proceeded by his former rules, His bait their pleasures, when he fish'd for fools;— Flagons and haunches on his board were placed, And subtle avarice look'd like thoughtless waste. Most of his friends, though youth from him had fled, Were young, were minors, of their sires in dread; Or those whom widow'd mothers kept in bounds, And check'd their generous rage for steeds and hounds; 270 Or such as travell'd 'cross the land to view A Christian's conflict with a boxing Jew. Some too had run upon Newmarket heath With so much speed that they were out of breath; Others had tasted claret, till they now To humbler port would turn, and knew not how. All these for favours would to Swallow run, Who never sought their thanks for all he'd done; He kindly took them by the hand, then bow'd Politely low, and thus his love avow'd— 280 (For he'd a way that many judged polite; A cunning dog, he'd fawn before he'd bite):— "Observe, my friends, the frailty of our race When age unmans us—let me state a case: There's our friend Rupert; we shall soon redress His present evil—drink to our success— I flatter not, but did you ever see Limbs better turn'd? a prettier boy than he? His senses all acute, his passions such As nature gave—she never does too much; 290 His the bold wish the cup of joy to drain, And strength to bear it without qualm or pain. "Now view his father as he dozing lies, Whose senses wake not when he opes his eyes; Who slips and shuffles when he means to walk, And lisps and gabbles if he tries to talk; Feeling he's none: he could as soon destroy The earth itself, as aught it holds enjoy; A nurse attends him to lay straight his limbs, Present his gruel, and respect his whims. 300 Now, shall this dotard from our hero hold His lands and lordships? Shall he hide his gold? That which he cannot use, and dare not show, And will not give—why longer should he owe? Yet, 'twould be murder should we snap the locks, And take the thing he worships from the box; So let him dote and dream: but, till he die, Shall not our generous heir receive supply? For ever sitting on the river's brink, And ever thirsty, shall he fear to drink? 310 The means are simple: let him only wish, Then say he's willing, and I'll fill his dish." They all applauded, and not least the boy, Who now replied, "It fill'd his heart with joy To find he needed not deliv'rance crave Of death, or wish the justice in the grave; Who, while he spent, would every art retain, Of luring home the scatter'd gold again; Just as a fountain gaily spirts and plays With what returns in still and secret ways." 320 Short was the dream of bliss; he quickly found, His father's acres all were Swallow's ground. Yet to those arts would other heroes lend A willing ear, and Swallow was their friend; Ever successful, some began to think That Satan help'd him to his pen and ink; And shrewd suspicions ran about the place, "There was a compact"—I must leave the case. But of the parties, had the fiend been one, The business could not have been speedier done. 330 Still, when a man has angled day and night, The silliest gudgeons will refuse to bite: So Swallow tried no more; but if they came To seek his friendship, that remain'd the same. Thus he retired in peace, and some would say, He balk'd his partner, and had learn'd to pray. To this some zealots lent an ear, and sought How Swallow felt, then said "a change is wrought." 'Twas true there wanted all the signs of grace, But there were strong professions in their place; 340 Then, too, the less that men from him expect, The more the praise to the converting sect; He had not yet subscribed to all their creed, Nor own'd a call; but he confess'd the need. His acquiescent speech, his gracious look, That pure attention, when the brethren spoke, Was all contrition,—he had felt the wound, And with confession would again be sound. True, Swallow's board had still the sumptuous treat; But could they blame? the warmest zealots eat. 350 He drank—'twas needful his poor nerves to brace; He swore—'twas habit; he was grieved—'twas grace. What could they do a new-born zeal to nurse? "His wealth's undoubted—let him hold our purse; He'll add his bounty, and the house we'll raise Hard by the church, and gather all her strays; We'll watch her sinners as they home retire, And pluck the brands from the devouring fire." Alas! such speech was but an empty boast; The good men reckon'd, but without their host; 360 Swallow, delighted, took the trusted store, And own'd the sum: they did not ask for more, Till more was needed; when they call'd for aid— And had it?—No, their agent was afraid; "Could he but know to whom he should refund, He would most gladly—nay, he'd go beyond; But, when such numbers claim'd, when some were gone, And others going—he must hold it on; } The Lord would help them,"—Loud their anger grew, } And while they threat'ning from his door withdrew, } 370 He bow'd politely low, and bade them all adieu. But lives the man by whom such deeds are done? Yes, many such—but Swallow's race is run; His name is lost;—for, though his sons have name, It is not his, they all escape the shame; Nor is there vestige now of all he had, His means are wasted, for his heir was mad. Still we of Swallow as a monster speak, A hard, bad man, who prey'd upon the weak.

Next, to a graver tribe we turn our view, And yield the praise to worth and science due; But this with serious words and sober style, For these are friends with whom we seldom smile: Helpers of men[51] they're call'd, and we confess Theirs the deep study, theirs the lucky guess. We own that numbers join with care and skill A temperate judgment, a devoted will: Men who suppress their feelings, but who feel 10 The painful symptoms they delight to heal; Patient in all their trials, they sustain The starts of passion, the reproach of pain; With hearts affected, but with looks serene, Intent they wait through all the solemn scene; Glad, if a hope should rise from nature's strife, To aid their skill and save the lingering life. But this must virtue's generous effort be, And spring from nobler motives than a fee: To the physicians of the soul, and these, 20 Turn the distress'd for safety, hope, and ease. But as physicians of that nobler kind Have their warm zealots, and their sectaries blind; So among these for knowledge most renown'd, Are dreamers strange, and stubborn bigots found. Some, too, admitted to this honour'd name, Have, without learning, found a way to fame; And some by learning:—young physicians write, To set their merit in the fairest light; With them a treatise is a bait that draws 30 Approving voices; 'tis to gain applause, And to exalt them in the public view, More than a life of worthy toil could do. When 'tis proposed to make the man renown'd, In every age convenient doubts abound; Convenient themes in every period start, Which he may treat with all the pomp of art; Curious conjectures he may always make, And either side of dubious questions take. He may a system broach, or, if he please, 40 Start new opinions of an old disease; Or may some simple in the woodland trace, And be its patron, till it runs its race; As rustic damsels from their woods are won, And live in splendour till their race be run; It weighs not much on what their powers be shown, When all his purpose is to make them known. To show the world what long experience gains, Requires not courage, though it calls for pains; But, at life's outset to inform mankind, 50 Is a bold effort of a valiant mind. The great good man, for noblest cause, displays What many labours taught, and many days; These sound instruction from experience give, The others show us how they mean to live; That they have genius, and they hope mankind Will to its efforts be no longer blind. There are, beside, whom powerful friends advance, Whom fashion favours, person, patrons, chance; And merit sighs to see a fortune made 60 By daring rashness or by dull parade. But these are trifling evils; there is one Which walks uncheck'd, and triumphs in the sun: There was a time, when we beheld the quack, On public stage, the licensed trade attack; He made his labour'd speech with poor parade; And then a laughing zany lent him aid. Smiling we pass'd him, but we felt the while Pity so much, that soon we ceased to smile; Assured that fluent speech and flow'ry vest 70 Disguised the troubles of a man distress'd. But now our quacks are gamesters, and they play With craft and skill to ruin and betray; With monstrous promise they delude the mind, And thrive on all that tortures human-kind. Void of all honour, avaricious, rash, The daring tribe compound their boasted trash— Tincture or syrup, lotion, drop or pill; All tempt the sick to trust the lying bill; And twenty names of cobblers turn'd to squires, 80 Aid the bold language of these blushless liars. There are among them those who cannot read, And yet they'll buy a patent, and succeed; Will dare to promise dying sufferers aid,— For who, when dead, can threaten or upbraid? With cruel avarice still they recommend More draughts, more syrup, to the journey's end: "I feel it not;"—"Then take it every hour."— "It makes me worse;"—"Why, then it shows its power."— "I fear to die;"—"Let not your spirits sink, 90 You're always safe, while you believe and drink." How strange to add, in this nefarious trade, That men of parts are dupes by dunces made: That creatures nature meant should clean our streets Have purchased lands and mansions, parks and seats; Wretches with conscience so obtuse, they leave Their untaught sons their parents to deceive; And, when they're laid upon their dying-bed, No thought of murder comes into their head, Nor one revengeful ghost to them appears, 100 To fill the soul with penitential fears. Yet not the whole of this imposing train Their gardens, seats, and carriages obtain; Chiefly, indeed, they to the robbers fall, Who are most fitted to disgrace them all. But there is hazard—patents must be bought, Venders and puffers for the poison sought; And then in many a paper through the year Must cures and cases, oaths and proofs appear; Men snatch'd from graves, as they were dropping in, 110 Their lungs cough'd up, their bones pierced through their skin; Their liver all one scirrhus, and the frame Poison'd with evils which they dare not name; } Men who spent all upon physicians' fees, } Who never slept, nor had a moment's ease, } Are now as roaches sound, and all as brisk as bees. If the sick gudgeons to the bait attend, And come in shoals, the angler gains his end; But, should the advertising cash be spent, Ere yet the town has due attention lent, 120 Then bursts the bubble, and the hungry cheat Pines for the bread he ill deserves to eat: It is a lottery, and he shares perhaps The rich man's feast, or begs the pauper's scraps. From powerful causes spring th' empiric's gains, Man's love of life, his weakness, and his pains; These first induce him the vile trash to try, Then lend his name, that other men may buy. This love of life, which in our nature rules, To vile imposture makes us dupes and tools; 130 Then pain compels th' impatient soul to seize On promised hopes of instantaneous ease; And weakness too with every wish complies, Worn out and won by importunities. Troubled with something in your bile or blood, You think your doctor does you little good; And, grown impatient, you require in haste The nervous cordial, nor dislike the taste; It comforts, heals, and strengthens; nay, you think It makes you better every time you drink; 140 "Then lend your name"—you're loth, but yet confess Its powers are great, and so you acquiesce. Yet, think a moment, ere your name you lend, With whose 'tis placed, and what you recommend; Who tipples brandy will some comfort feel, But will he to the med'cine set his seal? Wait, and you'll find the cordial you admire Has added fuel to your fever's fire. Say, should a robber chance your purse to spare, Would you the honour of the man declare? 150 Would you assist his purpose? swell his crime? Besides, he might not spare a second time. Compassion sometimes sets the fatal sign, The man was poor, and humbly begg'd a line; Else how should noble names and titles back The spreading praise of some advent'rous quack? But he the moment watches, and entreats Your honour's name—your honour joins the cheats; You judged the med'cine harmless, and you lent What help you could, and with the best intent; 160 But can it please you, thus to league with all Whom he can beg or bribe to swell the scrawl? Would you these wrappers with your name adorn, Which hold the poison for the yet unborn? No class escapes them—from the poor man's pay The nostrum takes no trifling part away; See! those square patent bottles from the shop, Now decoration to the cupboard's top; And there a favourite hoard you'll find within, Companions meet! the julep and the gin. 170 Time too with cash is wasted; 'tis the fate Of real helpers to be call'd too late; This find the sick, when (time and patience gone) Death with a tenfold terror hurries on. Suppose the case surpasses human skill, There comes a quack to flatter weakness still; What greater evil can a flatterer do, Than from himself to take the sufferer's view? To turn from sacred thoughts his reasoning powers, And rob a sinner of his dying hours? 180 Yet this they, dare and craving to the last, In hope's strong bondage hold their victim fast: } For soul or body no concern have they, } All their inquiry, "Can the patient pay? } And will he swallow draughts until his dying day?" Observe what ills to nervous females flow, When the heart flutters, and the pulse is low; If once induced these cordial sips to try, All feel the ease, and few the danger fly; For, while obtain'd, of drams they've all the force, 190 And when denied, then drams are the resource. Nor these the only evils—there are those Who for the troubled mind prepare repose; They write: the young are tenderly address'd, Much danger hinted, much concern express'd; They dwell on freedoms lads are prone to take, Which makes the doctor tremble for their sake; Still, if the youthful patient will but trust In one so kind, so pitiful, and just; If he will take the tonic all the time, 200 And hold but moderate intercourse with crime: The sage will gravely give his honest word, That strength and spirits shall be both restored; In plainer English—if you mean to sin, Fly to the drops, and instantly begin. Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh, To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry? That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note, Which came with vigour from the op'ning throat; When air and light first rush'd on lungs and eyes, 210 And there was life and spirit in the cries; Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep Is all we hear; sensation is asleep. The boy was healthy, and at first express'd His feelings loudly, when he fail'd to rest; When cramm'd with food, and tighten'd every limb, To cry aloud, was what pertain'd to him; Then the good nurse, (who, had she borne a brain, Had sought the cause that made her babe complain,) Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied, 220 To set the cry, and not the cause, aside; She gave her powerful sweet without remorse, The sleeping cordial—she had tried its force, Repeating oft; the infant, freed from pain, Rejected food, but took the dose again, Sinking to sleep; while she her joy express'd, That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest: Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt Remains but quickly he will rest without. This moves our grief and pity, and we sigh 230 To think what numbers from these causes die; But what contempt and anger should we show, Did we the lives of these impostors know! Ere for the world's I left the cares of school, One I remember who assumed the fool: A part well suited—when the idler boys Would shout around him, and he loved the noise; They call'd him Neddy;—Neddy had the art To play with skill his ignominious part; When he his trifles would for sale display, 240 And act the mimic for a schoolboy's pay. For many years he plied his humble trade, And used his tricks and talents to persuade; The fellow barely read, but chanced to look Among the fragments of a tatter'd book, Where, after many efforts made to spell One puzzling word, he found it oxymel: A potent thing, 'twas said, to cure the ills Of ailing lungs—the oxymel of squills. Squills he procured, but found the bitter strong, 250 And most unpleasant; none would take it long; But the pure acid and the sweet would make A med'cine numbers would for pleasure take. There was a fellow near, an artful knave, Who knew the plan, and much assistance gave; He wrote the puffs, and every talent plied To make it sell: it sold, and then he died. Now all the profit fell to Ned's control, And Pride and Avarice quarrell'd for his soul; When mighty profits by the trash were made, 260 Pride built a palace, Avarice groan'd and paid; Pride placed the signs of grandeur all about, And Avarice barr'd his friends and children out. Now see him doctor! yes, the idle fool, The butt, the robber of the lads at school; Who then knew nothing, nothing since acquired, Became a doctor, honour'd and admired; His dress, his frown, his dignity were such, Some who had known him thought his knowledge much; Nay, men of skill, of apprehension quick, 270 Spite of their knowledge, trusted him when sick. } Though he could never reason, write, nor spell, } They yet had hope his trash would make them well; } And while they scorn'd his parts, they took his oxymel. Oh! when his nerves had once received a shock, Sir Isaac Newton might have gone to Rock[52]: Hence impositions of the grossest kind; Hence thought is feeble, understanding blind; Hence sums enormous by those cheats are made, And deaths unnumber'd by their dreadful trade. 280 Alas! in vain is my contempt express'd; To stronger passions are their words address'd: To pain, to fear, to terror their appeal, To those who, weakly reasoning, strongly feel. What then our hopes?—perhaps there may by law Be method found, these pests to curb and awe; Yet in this land of freedom, law is slack With any being to commence attack; } Then let us trust to science—there are those } Who can their falsehoods and their frauds disclose, } 290 All their vile trash detect, and their low tricks expose. Perhaps their numbers may in time confound Their arts—as scorpions give themselves the wound: For, when these curers dwell in every place, While of the cured we not a man can trace, Strong truth may then the public mind persuade, And spoil the fruits of this nefarious trade.

Of manufactures, trade, inventions rare, Steam-towers and looms, you'd know our Borough's share— 'Tis small: we boast not these rich subjects here, Who hazard thrice ten thousand pounds a year, We've no huge buildings, where incessant noise Is made by springs and spindles, girls and boys; Where, 'mid such thundering sounds, the maiden's song Is "Harmony in Uproar"[53] all day long. Still, common minds with us, in common trade, 10 Have gain'd more wealth than ever student made; And yet a merchant, when he gives his son His college-learning, thinks his duty done; A way to wealth he leaves his boy to find, Just when he's made for the discovery blind. Jones and his wife perceived their elder boy Took to his learning, and it gave them joy; This they encouraged, and were bless'd to see Their son a Fellow with a high degree; A living fell, he married, and his sire 20 Declared 'twas all a father could require; Children then bless'd them, and when letters came, The parents proudly told each grandchild's name. Meantime the sons at home in trade were placed, Money their object—just the father's taste; Saving he lived and long, and when he died, He gave them all his fortune to divide. "Martin," said he, "at vast expense was taught; He gain'd his wish, and has the ease he sought." Thus the good priest (the Christian-scholar!) finds 30 What estimate is made by vulgar minds; He sees his brothers, who had every gift Of thriving, now assisted in their thrift; While he whom learning, habits, all prevent, Is largely mulct for each impediment. Yet, let us own that trade has much of chance: Not all the careful by their care advance; With the same parts and prospects, one a seat Builds for himself; one finds it in the Fleet. Then, to the wealthy you will see denied 40 Comforts and joys that with the poor abide: There are who labour through the year, and yet No more have gain'd than—not to be in debt; Who still maintain the same laborious course, Yet pleasure hails them from some favourite source; And health, amusements, children, wife or friend, With life's dull views their consolations blend. Nor these alone possess the lenient power Of soothing life in the desponding hour; Some favourite studies, some delightful care, 50 The mind with trouble and distresses share; And by a coin, a flower, a verse, a boat, The stagnant spirits have been set afloat; They pleased at first, and then the habit grew, Till the fond heart no higher pleasure knew; Till, from all cares and other comforts freed, Th' important nothing took in life the lead. With all his phlegm, it broke a Dutchman's heart, At a vast price with one loved root to part; And toys like these fill many a British mind, 60 Although their hearts are found of firmer kind. Oft have I smiled the happy pride to see Of humble tradesmen, in their evening glee; When, of some pleasing, fancied good possess'd, Each grew alert, was busy, and was bless'd; Whether the call-bird yield the hour's delight, Or, magnified in microscope, the mite; Or whether tumblers, croppers, carriers seize The gentle mind, they rule it and they please. There is my friend the Weaver; strong desires 70 Reign in his breast; 'tis beauty he admires: See! to the shady grove he wings his way, And feels in hope the raptures of the day— } Eager he looks; and soon, to glad his eyes, } From the sweet bower, by nature form'd, arise } Bright troops of virgin moths and fresh-born butterflies; Who broke that morning from their half-year's sleep, To fly o'er flow'rs where they were wont to creep. Above the sovereign oak a sovereign skims, The purple Emp'ror, strong in wing and limbs: 80 There fair Camilla takes her flight serene, Adonis blue, and Paphia, silver-queen; With every filmy fly from mead or bower, And hungry Sphinx, who threads the honey'd flower; She o'er the Larkspur's bed, where sweets abound, Views ev'ry bell, and hums th' approving sound; Poised on her busy plumes, with feeling nice She draws from every flower, nor tries a floret twice. He fears no bailiff's wrath, no baron's blame, His is untax'd and undisputed game; 90 Nor less the place of curious plant he knows[54]; He both his Flora and his Fauna shows; For him is blooming in its rich array The glorious flower which bore the palm away; In vain a rival tried his utmost art, His was the prize, and joy o'erflow'd his heart. "This, this is beauty! cast, I pray, your eyes On this my glory! see the grace! the size! Was ever stem so tall, so stout, so strong, Exact in breadth, in just proportion, long! 100 These brilliant hues are all distinct and clean, No kindred tint, no blending streaks between; This is no shaded, run-off[55], pin-eyed[56] thing, A king of flowers, a flower for England's king: I own my pride, and thank the favouring star, Which shed such beauty on my fair Bizarre[57]." Thus may the poor the cheap indulgence seize, While the most wealthy pine and pray for ease; Content not always waits upon success, And more may he enjoy who profits less. 110 Walter and William took (their father dead) Jointly the trade to which they both were bred; When fix'd, they married, and they quickly found With due success their honest labours crown'd: Few were their losses, but, although a few, Walter was vex'd, and somewhat peevish grew: "You put your trust in every pleading fool," Said he to William, and grew strange and cool. "Brother, forbear," he answer'd; "take your due, Nor let my lack of caution injure you." 120 Half friends they parted,—better so to close, Than longer wait to part entirely foes. Walter had knowledge, prudence, jealous care; He let no idle views his bosom share; He never thought nor felt for other men— "Let one mind one, and all are minded then." Friends he respected, and believed them just; But they were men, and he would no man trust; He tried and watch'd his people day and night,— The good it harm'd not; for the bad 'twas right: 130 He could their humours bear, nay disrespect, But he could yield no pardon to neglect; That all about him were of him afraid, "Was right," he said—"so should we be obey'd." } These merchant-maxims, much good-fortune too, } And ever keeping one grand point in view, } To vast amount his once small portion drew. William was kind and easy; he complied With all requests, or grieved when he denied; To please his wife he made a costly trip, 140 To please his child he let a bargain slip; } Prone to compassion, mild with the distress'd, } He bore with all who poverty profess'd, } And some would he assist, nor one would he arrest. } He had some loss at sea, bad debts at land, } His clerk absconded with some bills in hand, } And plans so often fail'd that he no longer plann'd. To a small house (his brother's) he withdrew, At easy rent—the man was not a Jew; And there his losses and his cares he bore, 150 Nor found that want of wealth could make him poor. No, he in fact was rich; nor could he move, But he was follow'd by the looks of love; All he had suffer'd, every former grief, Made those around more studious in relief; He saw a cheerful smile in every face, And lost all thoughts of error and disgrace. Pleasant it was to see them in their walk Round their small garden, and to hear them talk; Free are their children, but their love refrains 160 From all offence—none murmurs, none complains; Whether a book amused them, speech or play, Their looks were lively, and their hearts were gay; There no forced efforts for delight were made, Joy came with prudence, and without parade; Their common comforts they had all in view, Light were their troubles, and their wishes few; Thrift made them easy for the coming day; Religion took the dread of death away; A cheerful spirit still insured content, 170 And love smiled round them wheresoe'er they went. Walter, meantime, with all his wealth's increase, Gain'd many points, but could not purchase peace; When he withdrew from business for an hour, Some fled his presence, all confess'd his power; He sought affection, but received instead Fear undisguised, and love-repelling dread; He look'd around him—"Harriet, dost thou love?"— "I do my duty," said the timid dove;— "Good Heav'n, your duty! prithee, tell me now— 180 To love and honour—was not that your vow? Come, my good Harriet, I would gladly seek Your inmost thought—Why can't the woman speak? Have you not all things?"—"Sir, do I complain?"— "No, that's my part, which I perform in vain; I want a simple answer, and direct— But you evade; yes! 'tis as I suspect. Come then, my children! Watt! upon your knees Vow that you love me."—"Yes, sir, if you please."— "Again! by Heav'n, it mads me; I require 190 Love, and they'll do whatever I desire. Thus too my people shun me; I would spend A thousand pounds to get a single friend; I would be happy—I have means to pay For love and friendship, and you run away; Ungrateful creatures! why, you seem to dread My very looks; I know you wish me dead. Come hither, Nancy! you must hold me dear; Hither, I say; why! what have you to fear? You see I'm gentle—Come, you trifler, come; 200 My God! she trembles! Idiot, leave the room! Madam! your children hate me; I suppose They know their cue; you make them all my foes; I've not a friend in all the world—not one: I'd be a bankrupt sooner; nay, 'tis done; In every better hope of life I fail; You're all tormentors, and my house a jail; Out of my sight! I'll sit and make my will— What, glad to go? stay, devils, and be still; 'Tis to your uncle's cot you wish to run, 210 To learn to live at ease and be undone; Him you can love, who lost his whole estate, And I, who gain you fortunes, have your hate; 'Tis in my absence you yourselves enjoy: Tom! are you glad to lose me? tell me, boy: 'Yes!' does he answer?"—"'Yes!' upon my soul;" "No awe, no fear, no duty, no control! Away! away! ten thousand devils seize All I possess, and plunder where they please! What's wealth to me?—yes, yes! it gives me sway, 220 And you shall feel it—Go! begone, I say."

} Of our amusements ask you?—We amuse } Ourselves and friends with sea-side walks and views, } Or take a morning ride, a novel, or the news; Or, seeking nothing, glide about the street, And, so engaged, with various parties meet; Awhile we stop, discourse of wind and tide, Bathing and books, the raffle, and the ride: Thus, with the aid which shops and sailing give, Life passes on; 'tis labour, but we live. 10 When evening comes, our invalids awake, Nerves cease to tremble, heads forbear to ache; Then cheerful meals the sunken spirits raise, Cards or the dance, wine, visiting, or plays. Soon as the season comes, and crowds arrive, To their superior rooms the wealthy drive; Others look round for lodging snug and small, Such is their taste—they've hatred to a hall; Hence one his fav'rite habitation gets, The brick-floor'd parlour which the butcher lets; 20 Where, through his single light, he may regard The various business of a common yard, Bounded by backs of buildings form'd of clay, By stable, sties, and coops, et-cætera. The needy-vain, themselves awhile to shun, For dissipation to these dog-holes run; Where each (assuming petty pomp) appears, And quite forgets the shopboard and the shears. For them are cheap amusements: they may slip Beyond the town and take a private dip; 30 When they may urge that to be safe they mean: They've heard there's danger in a light machine; They too can gratis move the quays about, And gather kind replies to every doubt; There they a pacing, lounging tribe may view, The stranger's guides, who've little else to do; The Borough's placemen, where no more they gain Than keeps them idle, civil, poor, and vain. Then may the poorest with the wealthy look On ocean, glorious page of Nature's book! } 40 May see its varying views in every hour, } All softness now, then rising with all power, } As sleeping to invite, or threat'ning to devour: 'Tis this which gives us all our choicest views; Its waters heal us, and its shores amuse. See those fair nymphs upon that rising strand, Yon long salt lake has parted from the land; Well pleased to press that path, so clean, so pure, To seem in danger, yet to feel secure; Trifling with terror, while they strive to shun 50 The curling billows; laughing as they run; They know the neck that joins the shore and sea, Or, ah! how changed that fearless laugh would be. Observe how various parties take their way, By sea-side walks, or make the sand-hills gay; There group'd are laughing maids and sighing swains, And some apart who feel unpitied pains: Pains from diseases, pains which those who feel To the physician, not the fair, reveal; For nymphs (propitious to the lover's sigh) 60 Leave these poor patients to complain and die. Lo! where on that huge anchor sadly leans That sick tall figure, lost in other scenes; He late from India's clime impatient sail'd, There, as his fortune grew, his spirits fail'd; For each delight, in search of wealth he went, For ease alone, the wealth acquired is spent— And spent in vain; enrich'd, aggriev'd, he sees The envied poor possess'd of joy and ease; And now he flies from place to place, to gain 70 Strength for enjoyment, and still flies in vain. Mark, with what sadness, of that pleasant crew, Boist'rous in mirth, he takes a transient view, And, fixing then his eye upon the sea, Thinks what has been and what must shortly be: Is it not strange that man should health destroy, For joys that come when he is dead to joy? Now is it pleasant in the summer-eve, When a broad shore retiring waters leave, Awhile to wait upon the firm fair sand, 80 When all is calm at sea, all still at land; And there the ocean's produce to explore, As floating by, or rolling on the shore; Those living jellies[58] which the flesh inflame, Fierce as a nettle, and from that its name; Some in huge masses, some that you may bring In the small compass of a lady's ring; Figured by hand divine—there's not a gem Wrought by man's art to be compared to them; Soft, brilliant, tender, through the wave they glow, 90 And make the moon-beam brighter where they flow. Involved in sea-wrack, here you find a race, Which science, doubting, knows not where to place; On shell or stone is dropp'd the embryo-seed, And quickly vegetates a vital breed[59]. While thus with pleasing wonder you inspect Treasures the vulgar in their scorn reject, See as they float along th' entangled weeds Slowly approach, upborne on bladdery beads; Wait till they land, and you shall then behold 100 The fiery sparks those tangled frons' infold, Myriads of living points[60]; th' unaided eye Can but the fire and not the form descry. And now your view upon the ocean turn, And there the splendour of the waves discern; Cast but a stone, or strike them with an oar, And you shall flames within the deep explore; Or scoop the stream phosphoric as you stand, And the cold flames shall flash along your hand; When, lost in wonder, you shall walk and gaze 110 On weeds that sparkle, and on waves that blaze[61]. The ocean too has winter-views serene, When all you see through densest fog is seen; When you can hear the fishers near at hand Distinctly speak, yet see not where they stand; Or sometimes them and not their boat discern, Or half-conceal'd some figure at the stern; The view's all bounded, and from side to side Your utmost prospect but a few ells wide; Boys who, on shore, to sea the pebble cast, 120 Will hear it strike against the viewless mast; While the stern boatman growls his fierce disdain, At whom he knows not, whom he threats in vain. 'Tis pleasant then to view the nets float past, Net after net till you have seen the last; And as you wait till all beyond you slip, A boat comes gliding from an anchor'd ship, Breaking the silence with the dipping oar And their own tones, as labouring for the shore— Those measured tones which with the scene agree, 130 And give a sadness to serenity. All scenes like these the tender maid should shun, Nor to a misty beach in autumn run; Much should she guard against the evening cold, And her slight shape with fleecy warmth infold; This she admits, but not with so much ease Gives up the night-walk when th' attendants please. Her have I seen, pale, vapour'd through the day, With crowded parties at the midnight play; Faint in the morn, no powers could she exert; 140 At night with Pam delighted and alert; In a small shop she's raffled with a crowd, Breathed the thick air, and cough'd and laugh'd aloud; She, who will tremble if her eye explore "The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor;" Whom the kind doctor charged, with shaking head, At early hour to quit the beaux for bed: She has, contemning fear, gone down the dance, Till she perceived the rosy morn advance; Then has she wonder'd, fainting o'er her tea, 150 Her drops and juleps should so useless be: Ah! sure her joys must ravish every sense, Who buys a portion at so vast expense. Among those joys, 'tis one at eve to sail On the broad river with a favourite gale; When no rough waves upon the bosom ride, But the keel cuts, nor rises on the tide; Safe from the stream the nearer gunwale stands, Where playful children trail their idle hands, Or strive to catch long grassy leaves that float 160 On either side of the impeded boat: What time the moon, arising, shows the mud A shining border to the silver flood; When, by her dubious light, the meanest views, Chalk, stones, and stakes, obtain the richest hues; And when the cattle, as they gazing stand, Seem nobler objects than when view'd from land. Then anchor'd vessels in the way appear, And sea-boys greet them as they pass—"What cheer?" The sleeping shell-ducks at the sound arise, 170 And utter loud their unharmonious cries; Fluttering, they move their weedy beds among, Or, instant diving, hide their plumeless young. Along the wall, returning from the town, The weary rustic homeward wanders down; Who stops and gazes at such joyous crew, And feels his envy rising at the view; He the light speech and laugh indignant hears, And feels more press'd by want, more vex'd by fears. Ah! go in peace, good fellow, to thine home, 180 Nor fancy these escape the general doom; Gay as they seem, be sure with them are hearts With sorrow tried; there's sadness in their parts. If thou couldst see them when they think alone, Mirth, music, friends, and these amusements gone; Couldst thou discover every secret ill That pains their spirit, or resists their will; Couldst thou behold forsaken Love's distress, Or Envy's pang at glory and success, Or Beauty, conscious of the spoils of Time, 190 Or Guilt, alarm'd when Memory shows the crime— All that gives sorrow, terror, grief, and gloom: Content would cheer thee, trudging to thine home[62]. There are, 'tis true, who lay their cares aside, And bid some hours in calm enjoyment glide; Perchance some fair-one to the sober night Adds (by the sweetness of her song) delight; And, as the music on the water floats, Some bolder shore returns the soften'd notes; Then, youth, beware, for all around conspire 200 To banish caution and to wake desire; } The day's amusement, feasting, beauty, wine, } These accents sweet and this soft hour combine, } When most unguarded, then to win that heart of thine: But see, they land! the fond enchantment flies, And in its place life's common views arise. Sometimes a party, row'd from town, will land On a small islet form'd of shelly sand, Left by the water when the tides are low, But which the floods in their return o'erflow: 210 There will they anchor, pleased awhile to view The watery waste, a prospect wild and new; The now receding billows give them space On either side the growing shores to pace; And then, returning, they contract the scene, Till small and smaller grows the walk between, As sea to sea approaches, shore to shores, Till the next ebb the sandy isle restores. Then what alarm! what danger and dismay, If all their trust, their boat should drift away; 220 And once it happen'd—gay the friends advanced; They walk'd, they ran, they play'd, they sang, they danced; The urns were boiling, and the cups went round, And not a grave or thoughtful face was found; On the bright sand they trod with nimble feet, Dry shelly sand that made the summer-seat; The wondering mews flew fluttering o'er the head, And waves ran softly up their shining bed. Some form'd a party from the rest to stray, Pleased to collect the trifles in their way; 230 These to behold, they call their friends around— No friends can hear, or hear another sound; Alarm'd, they hasten, yet perceive not why, But catch the fear that quickens as they fly. For lo! a lady sage, who paced the sand With her fair children, one in either hand, Intent on home, had turn'd, and saw the boat Slipp'd from her moorings, and now far afloat; She gazed, she trembled, and though faint her call, It seem'd, like thunder, to confound them all. 240 Their sailor-guides, the boatman and his mate, Had drank, and slept regardless of their state; "Awake!" they cried aloud; "Alarm the shore! "Shout all, or never shall we reach it more!" Alas! no shout the distant land can reach, Nor eye behold them from the foggy beach. } Again they join in one loud, powerful cry, } Then cease, and eager listen for reply; } None came—the rising wind blew sadly by. They shout once more, and then they turn aside, 250 To see how quickly flow'd the coming tide; Between each cry they find the waters steal On their strange prison, and new horrors feel; Foot after foot on the contracted ground The billows fall, and dreadful is the sound; Less and yet less the sinking isle became, And there was wailing, weeping, wrath, and blame. Had one been there, with spirit strong and high, Who could observe, as he prepared to die: He might have seen of hearts the varying kind, 260 And traced the movement of each different mind; He might have seen, that not the gentle maid Was more than stern and haughty man afraid; Such calmly grieving, will their fears suppress, And silent prayers to Mercy's throne address; While fiercer minds, impatient, angry, loud, Force their vain grief on the reluctant crowd. The party's patron, sorely sighing, cried, "Why would you urge me? I at first denied." Fiercely they answer'd, "Why will you complain, 270 "Who saw no danger, or was warn'd in vain?" A few essay'd the troubled soul to calm; But dread prevail'd, and anguish and alarm. Now rose the water through the lessening sand, And they seem'd sinking while they yet could stand; The sun went down, they look'd from side to side, Nor aught except the gathering sea descried; Dark and more dark, more wet, more cold it grew, And the most lively bade to hope adieu; Children, by love then lifted from the seas, 280 Felt not the waters at the parents' knees, But wept aloud; the wind increased the sound, And the cold billows as they broke around. "Once more, yet once again, with all our strength, Cry to the land—we may be heard at length." Vain hope, if yet unseen! but hark! an oar, That sound of bliss! comes dashing to their shore; Still, still the water rises; "Haste!" they cry, "Oh! hurry, seamen; in delay we die;" (Seamen were these, who in their ship perceived 290 The drifted boat, and thus her crew relieved.) And now the keel just cuts the cover'd sand, Now to the gunwale stretches every hand; With trembling pleasure all confused embark, And kiss the tackling of their welcome ark; While the most giddy, as they reach the shore, Think of their danger, and their God adore.

You say you envy in your calm retreat Our social meetings;—'tis with joy we meet. In these our parties you are pleased to find Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind; Composed of men, who read, reflect, and write; Who, when they meet, must yield and share delight. To you our Book-club has peculiar charm, For which you sicken in your quiet farm; Here you suppose us at our leisure placed, 10 Enjoying freedom, and displaying taste; With wisdom cheerful, temperately gay, Pleased to enjoy, and willing to display. If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom, Give wings to fancy, and among us come. We're now assembled; you may soon attend— I'll introduce you—"Gentlemen, my friend."— "Now are you happy? you have pass'd a night In gay discourse, and rational delight."— "Alas! not so; for how can mortals think, 20 Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and drink? No! I confess, when we had fairly dined, That was no time for intercourse of mind; There was each dish prepared with skill t' invite, And to detain the struggling appetite; On such occasions minds with one consent Are to the comforts of the body lent; There was no pause—the wine went quickly round, Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound; Wine is to wit as water thrown on fire: 30 By duly sprinkling, both are raised the higher; Thus largely dealt, the vivid blaze they choke, And all the genial flame goes off in smoke."— "But when no more your boards these loads contain, When wine no more o'erwhelms the labouring brain, But serves, a gentle stimulus: we know How wit must sparkle, and how fancy flow."— It might be so, but no such club-days come; We always find these dampers in the room. If to converse were all that brought us here, 40 A few odd members would in turn appear; Who, dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out, O'erlook the list, and toss the books about; Or, yawning, read them, walking up and down, Just as the loungers in the shops in town; Till, fancying nothing would their minds amuse, They'd push them by, and go in search of news. But our attractions are a stronger sort, The earliest dainties and the oldest port; All enter then with glee in every look, 50 And not a member thinks about a book. Still let me own, there are some vacant hours, When minds might work, and men exert their powers: Ere wine to folly spurs the giddy guest, But gives to wit its vigour and its zest; Then might we reason, might in turn display Our several talents, and be wisely gay; We might—but who a tame discourse regards, When whist is named, and we behold the cards? We from that time are neither grave nor gay; 60 Our thought, our care, our business is to play: Fix'd on these spots and figures, each attends Much to his partners, nothing to his friends. Our public cares, the long, the warm debate, That kept our patriots from their beds so late; War, peace, invasion, all we hope or dread, Vanish like dreams when men forsake their bed; And groaning nations and contending kings Are all forgotten for these painted things: Paper and paste, vile figures and poor spots, 70 Level all minds, philosophers and sots; And give an equal spirit, pause, and force, Join'd with peculiar diction, to discourse: "Who deals?—you led—we're three by cards—had you Honour in hand?"—"Upon my honour, two." Hour after hour, men thus contending sit, Grave without sense, and pointed without wit. Thus it appears these envied clubs possess No certain means of social happiness; Yet there's a good that flows from scenes like these— 80 Man meets with man at leisure and at ease; We to our neighbours and our equals come, And rub off pride that man contracts at home; For there, admitted master, he is prone To claim attention and to talk alone: But here he meets with neither son nor spouse; No humble cousin to his bidding bows; To his raised voice his neighbours' voices rise; To his high look as lofty look replies; When much he speaks, he finds that ears are closed, 90 And certain signs inform him when he's prosed; Here all the value of a listener know, And claim, in turn, the favour they bestow. No pleasure gives the speech, when all would speak, And all in vain a civil hearer seek. To chance alone we owe the free discourse, In vain you purpose what you cannot force; 'Tis when the favourite themes unbidden spring, That fancy soars with such unwearied wing; Then may you call in aid the moderate glass, 100 But let it slowly and unprompted pass; So shall there all things for the end unite, And give that hour of rational delight. Men to their clubs repair, themselves to please, To care for nothing, and to take their ease; In fact, for play, for wine, for news they come; Discourse is shared with friends, or found at home. But cards with books are incidental things; We've nights devoted to these queens and kings. Then, if we choose the social game, we may; 110 Now, 'tis a duty, and we're bound to play; Nor ever meeting of the social kind Was more engaging, yet had less of mind. Our eager parties, when the lunar light Throws its full radiance on the festive night, Of either sex, with punctual hurry come, And fill, with one accord, an ample room. Pleased, the fresh packs on cloth of green they see, And, seizing, handle with preluding glee; They draw, they sit, they shuffle, cut and deal; 120 Like friends assembled, but like foes to feel: But yet not all—a happier few have joys Of mere amusement, and their cards are toys; No skill nor art, nor fretful hopes have they, But while their friends are gaming, laugh and play. Others there are, the veterans of the game, Who owe their pleasure to their envied fame; Through many a year, with hard-contested strife, Have they attain'd this glory of their life. Such is that ancient burgess, whom in vain 130 Would gout and fever on his couch detain; And that large lady, who resolves to come, Though a first fit has warn'd her of her doom! These are as oracles: in every cause They settle doubts, and their decrees are laws; But all are troubled, when, with dubious look, Diana questions what Apollo spoke. Here avarice first, the keen desire of gain, Rules in each heart, and works in every brain; Alike the veteran-dames and virgins feel, 140 Nor care what gray-beards or what striplings deal; Sex, age, and station, vanish from their view, And gold, their sov'reign good, the mingled crowd pursue. Hence they are jealous, and as rivals, keep A watchful eye on the beloved heap; Meantime discretion bids the tongue be still, And mild good-humour strives with strong ill-will; Till prudence fails; when, all impatient grown, They make their grief, by their suspicions, known. "Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play, 150 He'd rave to see you throw your cards away; Not that I care a button—not a pin For what I lose; but we had cards to win: A saint in heaven would grieve to see such hand Cut up by one who will not understand."— "Complain of me! and so you might indeed, If I had ventured on that foolish lead, That fatal heart—but I forgot your play— Some folk have ever thrown their hearts away."— "Yes, and their diamonds; I have heard of one 160 Who made a beggar of an only son."— "Better a beggar, than to see him tied To art and spite, to insolence and pride."— "Sir, were I you, I'd strive to be polite, Against my nature, for a single night."— "So did you strive, and, madam! with success; I knew no being we could censure less!"— Is this too much? alas! my peaceful muse Cannot with half their virulence abuse. And hark! at other tables discord reigns, 170 With feign'd contempt for losses and for gains; Passions awhile are bridled; then they rage, In waspish youth, and in resentful age; With scraps of insult—"Sir, when next you play, Reflect whose money 'tis you throw away. No one on earth can less such things regard, But when one's partner doesn't know a card——" "I scorn suspicion, ma'am, but while you stand Behind that lady, pray keep down your hand."— "Good heav'n, revoke! remember, if the set 180 Be lost, in honour you should pay the debt."— "There, there's your money; but, while I have life, I'll never more sit down with man and wife; They snap and snarl indeed, but in the heat Of all their spleen, their understandings meet; They are Freemasons, and have many a sign, That we, poor devils! never can divine: May it be told, do ye divide th' amount, Or goes it all to family account?" Next is the club, where to their friends in town 190 Our country neighbours once a month come down; We term it Free-and-easy, and yet we Find it no easy matter to be free: Ev'n in our small assembly, friends among, Are minds perverse, there's something will be wrong; Men are not equal; some will claim a right To be the kings and heroes of the night; Will their own favourite themes and notions start, And you must hear, offend them, or depart. There comes Sir Thomas from his village-seat, 200 Happy, he tells us, all his friends to meet; He brings the ruin'd brother of his wife, Whom he supports, and makes him sick of life: A ready witness whom he can produce Of all his deeds—a butt for his abuse. Soon as he enters, has the guests espied, Drawn to the fire, and to the glass applied— "Well, what's the subject?—what are you about? The news, I take it—come, I'll help you out;"— And then, without one answer, he bestows 210 Freely upon us all he hears and knows; } Gives us opinions, tells us how he votes, } Recites the speeches, adds to them his notes, } And gives old ill-told tales for new-born anecdotes; Yet cares he nothing what we judge or think, Our only duty's to attend and drink. At length, admonish'd by his gout, he ends The various speech, and leaves at peace his friends; But now, alas! we've lost the pleasant hour, And wisdom flies from wine's superior power. 220 Wine, like the rising sun, possession gains, And drives the mist of dulness from the brains; The gloomy vapour from the spirit flies, And views of gaiety and gladness rise. Still it proceeds, till from the glowing heat, The prudent calmly to their shades retreat;— Then is the mind o'ercast—in wordy rage And loud contention angry men engage; Then spleen and pique, like fire-works thrown in spite, To mischief turn the pleasures of the night; 230 Anger abuses, Malice loudly rails, Revenge awakes, and Anarchy prevails: Till wine, that raised the tempest, makes it cease, And maudlin Love insists on instant peace; He noisy mirth and roaring song commands, Gives idle toasts, and joins unfriendly hands; Till fuddled Friendship vows esteem and weeps, And jovial Folly drinks and sings and sleeps. A club there is of Smokers.—Dare you come To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room? 240 When, midnight past, the very candles seem Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam; When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise, And prosing topers rub their winking eyes; When the long tale, renew'd when last they met, Is spliced anew, and is unfinish'd yet; When but a few are left the house to tire, And they half-sleeping by the sleepy fire; Ev'n the poor ventilating vane, that flew Of late so fast, is now grown drowsy too; 250 When sweet, cold, clammy punch its aid bestows, Then thus the midnight conversation flows:— "Then, as I said, and—mind me—as I say, At our last meeting—you remember"—"Ay;" "Well, very well—then freely as I drink I spoke my thought—you take me—what I think: And sir, said I, if I a freeman be, It is my bounden duty to be free."— "Ay, there you posed him; I respect the chair, But man is man, although the man's a mayor. 260 If Muggins live—no, no!—if Muggins die, He'll quit his office—neighbour, shall I try?"— "I'll speak my mind, for here are none but friends: They're all contending for their private ends; } No public spirit, once a vote would bring; } I say a vote was then a pretty thing; } It made a man to serve his country and his king. But for that place, that Muggins must resign, You've my advice—'tis no affair of mine." The poor man has his club; he comes and spends 270 His hoarded pittance with his chosen friends; Nor this alone—a monthly dole he pays, To be assisted when his health decays; Some part his prudence, from the day's supply, For cares and troubles in his age, lays by; The printed rules he guards with painted frame, And shows his children where to read his name: Those simple words his honest nature move, That bond of union tied by laws of love. This is his pride, it gives to his employ 280 New value, to his home another joy; While a religious hope its balm applies For all his fate inflicts and all his state denies. Much would it please you, sometimes to explore The peaceful dwellings of our borough poor; To view a sailor just return'd from sea; His wife beside; a child on either knee, And others crowding near, that none may lose The smallest portion of the welcome news: What dangers pass'd, "when seas ran mountains high, 290 When tempests raved, and horrors veil'd the sky; When prudence fail'd, when courage grew dismay'd When the strong fainted, and the wicked pray'd,— Then in the yawning gulf far down we drove, And gazed upon the billowy mount above; Till up that mountain, swinging with the gale, We view'd the horrors of the watery vale." The trembling children look with stedfast eyes, And panting, sob involuntary sighs: Soft sleep awhile his torpid touch delays, 300 And all is joy and piety and praise. Masons are ours. Freemasons—but, alas! To their own bards I leave the mystic class; In vain shall one, and not a gifted man, Attempt to sing of this enlighten'd clan: I know no word, boast no directing sign, And not one token of the race is mine; Whether with Hiram, that wise widow's son, They came from Tyre to royal Solomon, Two pillars raising by their skill profound, 310 Boaz and Jachin through the East renown'd: Whether the sacred books their rise express, Or books profane, 'tis vain for me to guess. It may be, lost in date remote and high, They know not what their own antiquity; It may be too, derived from cause so low, They have no wish their origin to show. If, as crusaders, they combined to wrest From heathen lords the land they long possess'd, Or were at first some harmless club, who made 320 Their idle meetings solemn by parade, Is but conjecture—for the task unfit, Awe-struck and mute, the puzzling theme I quit. Yet, if such blessings from their order flow, We should be glad their moral code to know; Trowels of silver are but simple things, And aprons worthless as their apron-strings; But, if indeed you have the skill to teach A social spirit, now beyond our reach; If man's warm passions you can guide and bind, 330 And plant the virtues in the wayward mind; If you can wake to christian-love the heart— In mercy, something of your powers impart. But, as it seems, we Masons must become To know the secret, and must then be dumb; And, as we venture for uncertain gains, Perhaps the profit is not worth the pains. When Bruce, the dauntless traveller, thought he stood On Nile's first rise, the fountain of the flood, And drank exulting in the sacred spring, 340 The critics told him, it was no such thing; That springs unnumber'd round the country ran, But none could show him where they first began: So might we feel, should we our time bestow To gain these secrets and these signs to know; Might question still if all the truth we found, And firmly stood upon the certain ground; We might our title to the mystery dread, And fear we drank not at the river-head. Griggs and Gregorians here their meetings hold, 350 Convivial sects, and Bucks alert and bold: A kind of Masons, but without their sign; The bonds of union—pleasure, song, and wine. Man, a gregarious creature, loves to fly Where he the trackings of the herd can spy; Still to be one with many he desires, Although it leads him through the thorns and briers. A few—but few—there are, who in the mind Perpetual source of consolation find; The weaker many to the world will come, 360 For comforts seldom to be found from home. } When the faint hands no more a brimmer hold; } When flannel-wreaths the useless limbs infold, } The breath impeded, and the bosom cold; When half the pillow'd man the palsy chains, And the blood falters in the bloated veins— Then, as our friends no further aid supply Than hope's cold phrase and courtesy's soft sigh, We should that comfort for ourselves ensure, Which friends could not, if we could friends procure. 370 Early in life, when we can laugh aloud, There's something pleasant in a social crowd, Who laugh with us—but will such joy remain, When we lie struggling on the bed of pain? When our physician tells us with a sigh, No more on hope and science to rely, Life's staff is useless then; with labouring breath We pray for hope divine—the staff of death. This is a scene which few companions grace, And where the heart's first favourites yield their place. 380 Here all the aid of man to man must end, Here mounts the soul to her eternal Friend; The tenderest love must here its tie resign, And give th' aspiring heart to love divine. Men feel their weakness, and to numbers run, Themselves to strengthen, or themselves to shun; But though to this our weakness may be prone, Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone.

All the comforts of life in a tavern are known, 'Tis his home who possesses not one of his own; And to him who has rather too much of that one, 'Tis the house of a friend where he's welcome to run: The instant you enter my door you're my lord, With whose taste and whose pleasure I'm proud to accord; And the louder you call and the longer you stay, The more I am happy to serve and obey.

To the house of a friend if you're pleased to retire, You must all things admit, you must all things admire; You must pay with observance the price of your treat, You must eat what is praised, and must praise what you eat: But here you may come, and no tax we require, You may loudly condemn what you greatly admire; You may growl at our wishes and pains to excel, And may snarl at the rascals who please you so well.

At your wish we attend, and confess that your speech On the nation's affairs might the minister teach; His views you may blame, and his measures oppose, There's no tavern-treason—you're under the Rose: Should rebellions arise in your own little state, With me you may safely their consequence wait; To recruit your lost spirits 'tis prudent to come, And to fly to a friend when the devil's at home.

That I've faults is confess'd; but it won't be denied, 'Tis my interest the faults of my neighbours to hide; If I've sometimes lent Scandal occasion to prate, I've often conceal'd what she'd love to relate; If to Justice's bar some have wander'd from mine, 'Twas because the dull rogues wouldn't stay by their wine; And for brawls at my house, well the poet explains, That men drink shallow draughts, and so madden their brains.

Much do I need, and therefore will I ask, A Muse to aid me in my present task; For then with special cause we beg for aid, When of our subject we are most afraid: Inns are this subject—'tis an ill-drawn lot; So, thou who gravely triflest, fail me not. Fail not, but haste, and to my memory bring Scenes yet unsung, which few would choose to sing: Thou mad'st a Shilling splendid; thou hast thrown 10 On humble themes the graces all thine own; By thee the Mistress of a village-school Became a queen, enthroned upon her stool; And far beyond the rest thou gav'st to shine Belinda's Lock—that deathless work was thine. Come, lend thy cheerful light, and give to please These seats of revelry, these scenes of ease; Who sings of Inns much danger has to dread, And needs assistance from the fountain-head. High in the street, o'erlooking all the place, 20 The rampant Lion shows his kingly face; His ample jaws extend from side to side, His eyes are glaring, and his nostrils wide; In silver shag the sovereign form is dress'd; A mane horrific sweeps his ample chest; Elate with pride, he seems t' assert his reign, And stands, the glory of his wide domain. Yet nothing dreadful to his friends the sight, But sign and pledge of welcome and delight: To him the noblest guest the town detains 30 Flies for repast, and in his court remains; Him too the crowd with longing looks admire, Sigh for his joys, and modestly retire; Here not a comfort shall to them be lost Who never ask or never feel the cost. The ample yards on either side contain Buildings where order and distinction reign;— The splendid carriage of the wealthier guest, The ready chaise and driver smartly dress'd; Whiskeys and gigs and curricles are there, 40 And high-fed prancers, many a raw-boned pair. On all without a lordly host sustains The care of empire, and observant reigns; The parting guest beholds him at his side, With pomp obsequious, bending in his pride; Round all the place his eyes all objects meet, Attentive, silent, civil, and discreet. O'er all within the lady-hostess rules, Her bar she governs, and her kitchen schools; To every guest th' appropriate speech is made, 50 And every duty with distinction paid: Respectful, easy, pleasant, or polite— "Your honour's servant—Mister Smith, good night." Next, but not near, yet honour'd through the town, There swing, incongruous pair! the Bear and Crown; That Crown suspended gems and ribands deck, A golden chain hangs o'er that furry neck. Unlike the nobler beast, the Bear is bound, And with the Crown so near him, scowls uncrown'd; Less his dominion, but alert are all 60 Without, within, and ready for the call; Smart lads and light run nimbly here and there, Nor for neglected duties mourns the Bear. To his retreats, on the election-day, The losing party found their silent way; There they partook of each consoling good, Like him uncrown'd, like him in sullen mood— Threat'ning, but bound.—Here meet a social kind, Our various clubs, for various cause combined; Nor has he pride, but thankful takes as gain 70 The dew-drops shaken from the Lion's mane: A thriving couple here their skill display, And share the profits of no vulgar sway. Third in our Borough's list appears the sign Of a fair queen—the gracious Caroline; But in decay—each feature in the face Has stain of Time, and token of disgrace. The storm of winter, and the summer-sun, Have on that form their equal mischief done; The features now are all disfigured seen, 80 And not one charm adorns th' insulted queen: To this poor face was never paint applied, Th' unseemly work of cruel Time to hide; Here we may rightly such neglect upbraid; Paint on such faces is by prudence laid. Large the domain, but all within combine To correspond with the dishonour'd sign; And all around dilapidates; you call— But none replies—they're inattentive all. At length a ruin'd stable holds your steed, 90 While you through large and dirty rooms proceed, Spacious and cold; a proof they once had been In honour—now magnificently mean; Till in some small half-furnish'd room you rest, Whose dying fire denotes it had a guest. In those you pass'd where former splendour reign'd, You saw the carpets torn, the paper stain'd; Squares of discordant glass in windows fix'd, And paper oil'd in many a space betwixt; A soil'd and broken sconce; a mirror crack'd, 100 With table underpropp'd, and chairs new-back'd; A marble side-slab with ten thousand stains, And all an ancient tavern's poor remains. With much entreaty, they your food prepare, And acid wine afford, with meagre fare; Heartless you sup; and when a dozen times You've read the fractured window's senseless rhymes; Have been assured that Phœbe Green was fair, And Peter Jackson took his supper there: You reach a chilling chamber, where you dread 110 Damps, hot or cold, from a tremendous bed; Late comes your sleep, and you are waken'd soon By rustling tatters of the old festoon. O'er this large building, thus by time defaced, A servile couple has its owner placed, Who, not unmindful that its style is large, To lost magnificence adapt their charge. Thus an old beauty, who has long declined, Keeps former dues and dignity in mind; And wills that all attention should be paid 120 For graces vanish'd and for charms decay'd. Few years have pass'd, since brightly 'cross the way Lights from each window shot the lengthen'd ray, And busy looks in every face were seen, Through the warm precincts of the reigning Queen. There fires inviting blazed, and all around Was heard the tinkling bells' seducing sound; The nimble waiters to that sound from far Sprang to the call, then hasten'd to the bar; Where a glad priestess of the temple sway'd, 130 The most obedient, and the most obey'd; Rosy and round, adorn'd in crimson vest, And flaming ribands at her ample breast, She, skill'd like Circe, tried her guests to move With looks of welcome and with words of love; And such her potent charms, that men unwise Were soon transform'd and fitted for the sties. Her port in bottles stood, a well-stain'd row, Drawn for the evening from the pipe below; Three powerful spirits fill'd a parted case; 140 Some cordial-bottles stood in secret place; Fair acid fruits in nets above were seen; Her plate was splendid, and her glasses clean; Basins and bowls were ready on the stand, And measures clatter'd in her powerful hand. Inferior houses now our notice claim, But who shall deal them their appropriate fame? Who shall the nice, yet known distinction, tell, Between the peal complete and single bell? Determine, ye, who on your shining nags 150 Wear oil-skin beavers and bear seal-skin bags; Or ye, grave topers, who with coy delight Snugly enjoy the sweetness of the night; Ye travellers all, superior inns denied By moderate purse, the low by decent pride: Come and determine,—will ye take your place At the full orb, or half the lunar face? With the Black-Boy or Angel will ye dine? Will ye approve the Fountain or the Vine? Horses the white or black will ye prefer? 160 The Silver-Swan, or swan opposed to her— Rare bird! whose form the raven-plumage decks, And graceful curve her three alluring necks? All these a decent entertainment give, And by their comforts comfortably live. Shall I pass by the Boar?—there are who cry, "Beware the Boar," and pass determined by: Those dreadful tusks, those little peering eyes And churning chaps, are tokens to the wise. There dwells a kind old aunt, and there you see 170 Some kind young nieces in her company— Poor village nieces, whom the tender dame Invites to town, and gives their beauty fame; The grateful sisters feel th' important aid, And the good aunt is flatter'd and repaid. What though it may some cool observers strike, That such fair sisters should be so unlike; That still another and another comes, And at the matron's table smiles and blooms; That all appear as if they meant to stay 180 Time undefined, nor name a parting day; And yet, though all are valued, all are dear, Causeless, they go, and seldom more appear: Yet—let Suspicion hide her odious head, And Scandal vengeance from a burgess dread— A pious friend, who with the ancient dame At sober cribbage takes an evening game; His cup beside him, through their play he quaffs, And oft renews, and innocently laughs; Or, growing serious, to the text resorts, 190 And from the Sunday-sermon makes reports; While all, with grateful glee, his wish attend, A grave protector and a powerful friend. But Slander says, who indistinctly sees, Once he was caught with Silvia on his knees— A cautious burgess with a careful wife To be so caught!—'tis false, upon my life. Next are a lower kind, yet not so low But they, among them, their distinctions know; And, when a thriving landlord aims so high 200 As to exchange the Chequer for the Pye, Or from Duke William to the Dog repairs, He takes a finer coat and fiercer airs. Pleased with his power, the poor man loves to say What favourite inn shall share his evening's pay; Where he shall sit the social hour, and lose His past day's labours and his next day's views. Our seamen too have choice: one takes a trip In the warm cabin of his favourite ship; And on the morrow in the humbler boat 210 He rows, till fancy feels herself afloat; Can he the sign—Three Jolly Sailors pass, Who hears a fiddle and who sees a lass? The Anchor too affords the seaman joys, In small smoked room, all clamour, crowd, and noise; Where a curved settle half surrounds the fire, Where fifty voices purl and punch require. They come for pleasure in their leisure hour, And they enjoy it to their utmost power; Standing they drink, they swearing smoke, while all 220 Call or make ready for a second call: There is no time for trifling—"Do ye see? We drink and drub the French extempore." See! round the room, on every beam and balk, Are mingled scrolls of hieroglyphic chalk; Yet nothing heeded—would one stroke suffice To blot out all, here honour is too nice— "Let knavish landsmen think such dirty things, We're British tars, and British tars are kings." But the Green-Man shall I pass by unsung, 230 Which mine own James upon his sign-post hung? His sign, his image,—for he once was seen A squire's attendant, clad in keeper's green; Ere yet, with wages more, and honour less, He stood behind me in a graver dress. James in an evil hour went forth to woo Young Juliet Hart, and was her Romeo: They'd seen the play, and thought it vastly sweet For two young lovers by the moon to meet; The nymph was gentle, of her favours free, 240 Ev'n at a word—no Rosalind was she; Nor, like that other Juliet, tried his truth With—"Be thy purpose marriage, gentle youth?" But him received, and heard his tender tale, When sang the lark, and when the nightingale: So in few months the generous lass was seen I' the way that all the Capulets had been. Then first repentance seized the amorous man, And—shame on love—he reason'd and he ran; The thoughtful Romeo trembled for his purse, 250 And the sad sounds, "for better and for worse." Yet could the lover not so far withdraw, But he was haunted both by love and law: Now law dismay'd him as he view'd its fangs, Now pity seized him for his Juliet's pangs; Then thoughts of justice and some dread of jail, Where all would blame him and where none might bail; These drew him back, till Juliet's hut appear'd, Where love had drawn him when he should have fear'd. There sat the father in his wicker throne, 260 Uttering his curses in tremendous tone; With foulest names his daughter he reviled, And look'd a very Herod at the child: Nor was she patient, but with equal scorn, Bade him remember when his Joe was born: Then rose the mother, eager to begin Her plea for frailty, when the swain came in. To him she turn'd, and other theme began, Show'd him his boy, and bade him be a man— "An honest man, who, when he breaks the laws, 270 Will make a woman honest if there's cause." With lengthened speech she proved what came to pass Was no reflection on a loving lass: "If she your love as wife and mother claim, What can it matter which was first the name? But 'tis most base, 'tis perjury and theft, When a lost girl is like a widow left; The rogue who ruins"—here the father found His spouse was treading on forbidden ground. "That's not the point," quoth he,—"I don't suppose 280 My good friend Fletcher to be one of those; What's done amiss he'll mend in proper time— I hate to hear of villany and crime. 'Twas my misfortune, in the days of youth, To find two lasses pleading for my truth; The case was hard, I would with all my soul Have wedded both, but law is our control; So one I took, and when we gain'd a home, Her friend agreed—what could she more?—to come; And when she found that I'd a widow'd bed, 290 Me she desired—what could I less?—to wed. An easier case is yours: you've not the smart That two fond pleaders cause in one man's heart; You've not to wait from year to year distress'd, Before your conscience can be laid at rest; There smiles your bride, there sprawls your new-born son, —A ring, a licence, and the thing is done." "My loving James,"—the lass began her plea, "I'll make thy reason take a part with me. Had I been froward, skittish, or unkind, 300 Or to thy person or thy passion blind; Had I refused, when 'twas thy part to pray, Or put thee off with promise and delay; Thou might'st in justice and in conscience fly, Denying her who taught thee to deny: But, James, with me thou hadst an easier task, Bonds and conditions I forbore to ask; "I laid no traps for thee, no plots or plans, Nor marriage named by licence or by banns; Nor would I now the parson's aid employ, 310 But for this cause"—and up she held her boy. Motives like these could heart of flesh resist? James took the infant and in triumph kiss'd; Then to his mother's arms the child restored, Made his proud speech, and pledged his worthy word. "Three times at church our banns shall publish'd be, Thy health be drunk in bumpers three times three; And thou shalt grace (bedeck'd in garments gay) The christening-dinner on the wedding day." James at my door then made his parting bow, 320 Took the Green-Man, and is a master now.